Stoned
by StitchAndRepair
Summary: Can't think of a summary or a decent title so... Mickey.


**Thankyou to Beth for putting up with my terrible notes and making this a thousand times better. And thankyou to Megan for putting up with my rambling emails and many, many typos haha.**

_I own nothing, just my imagination._

He was 13 the first time he got stoned - a late starter for the streets of Southside, Chicago. He hated it at first; his skin felt too hot and he felt too out of control - his reactions were too slow and his brothers kept throwing stuff at him, laughing at him as he sat, practically hung off the bed.  
But later on in the comfort of his own room, the weed happily in his system, he remembers laying there, able to hear as his body worked hard digesting his dinner, pumping his blood, his heart beating, keeping him alive. It was as if an internal mic had been turned up and everything else tuned out - He could hear his heart beat in his ears, could practically feel as the blood flowed, pumped, swam through his veins and for the first time in his 13 short years, the noisy, violent streets of Chicago were drowned out.  
He sat there in the dark, in silence, running hIs tongue along the roof of his mouth feeling every ridge, every bump, listening to the sounds of his body and he wondered if it was possible to know somebody else's body like that - to know every ridge, every bump, to know all the little things that make a person who they are.

He never thought of that again. Years passed and weed became a habit and he never stopped, never slowed down enough to think about things like knowing somebody or needing somebody because nobody was worth knowing in this shitty neighbourhood, and nobody wanted to get to know Mickey either. Not until the day a scrawny, floppy haired kid from a few blocks over came in wielding a tire iron and fought his way into Mickey's house, Mickey's room, Mickey's bed, Mickey's heart.

And it wasn't until his second stint in juvy that Mickey thought of that first time he got stoned - and he ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth and thought of nothing but what Gallaghers tongue would taste like. He wondered if he could count the ridges in Ian's mouth and run his fingers up the bumps of Ian's spine. He wondered again if it was possible to know somebody better than they knew themselves.

Things were simpler back then, it seemed like a whole lifetime ago that he was sat in the prison cell, thinking and planning and knowing what to expect when he got out.  
Mickey's life was completely different now, he was a different person to who he was back then.  
As he sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into the sheets, he thinks of how he once tasted Ian's lips with his own, but he never got to count the ridges along the roof of his mouth and he never got to taste Ian's tongue and he never got to run his fingers along Ian's spine. He'd never got that chance to know someone else's body better than even his own.

He takes off his shirt and lays down in bed, pulling the cover up over him. He looks down at his wife, her black hair tangled across her pale face, her swollen belly pushing against the quilt and Mickey hates that he's never going to want to find out the spot on her neck that makes her pant, breathless with his name on her tongue, he's never going to want to run his hands along the curves of her body and he's never going to love her like a woman should be loved.  
He feels angry because she never asked for this either. She's Terry's victim too. Everyone Mickey has ever met is a victim of Terry's and that's the saddest thing of all.

He runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth and counts the ridges.  
_1, 2, 3, 4.._  
He checks his cell on the side and sees the message flashing, his inbox full. He opens the first saved message, reads it for the 100th time.  
_5, 6...  
_I miss you.  
And Mickey smiles to himself. Because he may never of gotten to know every inch of Ian's body, not like he wanted to, and things may have ended, broken beyond repair; but he knows that it was real. They were real.

And sometimes Mickey thinks that that's enough.


End file.
